Chapter 15

Fifteen

"Are you well, my love?"

Elizabeth smiled even as she rolled her eyes. "Since the last time that you asked? Yes, I am perfectly well. I have not been injured, I have had more than enough tea to soothe my nerves, and I do not feel even the slightest bit chilled. Really, Fitzwilliam, you were the one engaged in fisticuffs this morning. How are your hands?"

"Since the last time that you asked?" He smiled when Elizabeth swatted him for his impertinent remark. "Truthfully, they ache a little, but not terribly so. I do not believe I am any worse for wear than that."

Perhaps his derriere would sport a bruise for a day or two because of Wickham knocking him to the ground, but he could hardly say that in mixed company. After sending the Wickhams into exile, the day at Longbourn had largely returned to its usual routine. Mrs Bennet was more aflutter than usual, of course, but with Miss Bennet and Bingley about to cosset her, she was reasonably calm. Miss Mary and Miss Catherine had returned to their music lesson once the excitement had died down and Darcy's horse, which he had abandoned to the fields beyond the garden wall in order to fly to Elizabeth's rescue, had been easily rounded up and taken to the stables. Mr Bennet, after first checking on Elizabeth, had disappeared into his book-room for some well-earned solitude.

"Here, let me have a look." Taking one of his hands and bringing it into her lap, Elizabeth peeled away his glove. Upon revealing the scrapes and purpling bruises underneath she gasped aloud. "Oh! Why did you not tell me you were in such pain?".

Darcy grimaced at his own stupidity. Had he realised the extent of the damage, he would never have allowed her to witness it. "Because I was not... It barely hurts at—ow!" He flinched when Elizabeth's fingers skated across the enflamed ridges of his knuckles.

She quirked a knowing brow at him. "Oh, yes, I can see that you are perfectly well."

"It is nothing, truly."

"All the same, I would not like to see your wounds become infected. Come, I have just the thing in the stillroom."

Without relinquishing his hand, Elizabeth stood and used it to tug him out of the parlour and down the hall. It seemed at first as if she were about to take him back out into the garden, a place he had no interest in visiting again that day, but she took a sharp left at the last moment and they entered a small room at the far end of the corridor.

This being more of a female domain, Darcy looked about him with interest; there was a large, rough-hewn table down the centre of the space, a shelf full of supplies against one wall, stained aprons dangling from a hook by the door, and various plants and herbs hanging from the ceiling. He thought he recognised one as lavender, but could not divine the others as he was no botanist.

"Sit here," Elizabeth instructed, planting him upon a stool she pulled out from beneath the table. He acquiesced without complaint as she then bustled away, searching the shelf for whatever it was she needed.

She returned to him, a jar and a rag in hand, and pulled out a stool for herself. She then retook possession of his hand and began her ministrations.

Darcy, at first considering himself fortunate to be alone with his lovely Elizabeth, decided he had been too hasty. The ointment she was dabbing on his knuckles stung like the dickens and it took all of his manly restraint to prevent himself from crying out. He could not help a sharp hiss when she applied it to a particularly sensitive laceration.

"Men consider themselves so valiant in attaining an injury, yet are quick to complain once it comes time to tend it."

"Easy for you to say."

Elizabeth paused her ministrations to smirk up at him. "I am no stranger to cuts and bruises myself, sir. I was always fond of boys' games as a girl and paid the consequences for it. Now hold still."

Darcy grumbled an indistinct response and withheld any further complaints. "Tell me sincerely, are you recovered from your ordeal this morning? Ought I have called Wickham out? I was sorely tempted, as you know."

Though she sighed, Elizabeth did not relinquish her task. "No, I cannot see how that would have helped anyone. You and my father were right in sending them away, in my opinion. As much as the Wickhams have injured us, I should not like to see them harmed in return, nor do I wish them to cause us any more trouble. Besides, I strongly suspect that they shall be each other's punishment."

"I had not thought of that."

"Let me bandage this for you."

Darcy protested the need, but Elizabeth was already rummaging through her stock of rags for a clean one. She brought it back amidst his protests and proceeded to wrap his wounded hand.

"There," she proclaimed once she had finished. "I shall be sending a jar of ointment back to Netherfield with you so that your valet can change out your dressings."

"I believe I shall conveniently forget it here."

Elizabeth chuckled and wagged a scolding finger at him. "I had already intended to pass it along to Mr Bingley. He shall see to it that it ends up in the correct hands."

"Pain and treachery? I suppose this is the sort of treatment I can anticipate as your husband."

"Only when it is called for." Elizabeth punctuated her cheery remark with a kiss to his cheek before standing up and moving to tidy her things.

When she looked away, Darcy found the courage to speak what had been plaguing his mind since he first spotted Wickham accosting Elizabeth. "I owe you an apology for not arriving sooner. He should never have been allowed to prey upon you."

Elizabeth did not so much as look up from her chore. "And I should not have left the house until you arrived, regardless of my surety that he remained abed. We both underestimated his determination to get me alone, so do not berate yourself."

"But—"

"Fitzwilliam." Darcy stilled at Elizabeth's tone and the steely way she regarded him. "We have already spoken about our common tendency to blame ourselves when others are at fault. Let us leave it at that."

Darcy exhaled a soft laugh, though he was hardly amused. "I said something similar to your father not above an hour ago."

"Good advice bears repeating. Now," she clapped her hands together, "let us leave off this nasty business of the Wickhams, for I am tired of speaking of them. We need never see them again unless we should wish it, and I cannot fathom a time when that will come to pass. I am done with them."

She turned her back to him, ostensibly to rearrange the items on her worktable, but Darcy distinctly heard a shuddering sob. He quickly stood, folded her into his arms from behind, and held her as her weeping intensified, transforming from small sniffles into wracking convulsions. She turned into him and Darcy cradled her head to his chest.

When the worst of her anguish had subsided, Elizabeth offered him a hiccoughing apology. "F-Forgive me. I have told myself over and over that Lydia was never the girl I believed her to be, that I am better off without her, but…"

"She is still your sister."

Elizabeth nodded against his lapel.

"I know it is not quite the same, but I have often felt likewise about Wickham. We were once friends, you know, though it has been many years since I could consider him so. I even believed him worth saving until he attempted to take advantage of Georgiana. It is why I gave him the money in place of the living. As much as I wanted him to be the boy I thought I knew, I do not think he ever was. Rather, I think he merely pretended to be whatever a person most wanted to see in order to fleece them for whatever he could get."

"Do you think Lydia is the same?"

He shrugged. "Not exactly, no, but they both show the same sort of selfishness and disdain for the feelings of others. They are much alike in that respect."

"And to think I once accused you of the same."

Darcy winced at the memory. He had not intended to draw a comparison to her recriminations from that day in Hunsford, though her words would always taunt him at the back of his mind. "You were not wholly incorrect in your estimation. I did separate my friend from your sister and rejoiced in my success, to say nothing of the awful manners I displayed towards you."

Elizabeth shook her head and tilted it back to look at him directly. "No, you are nothing like the Wickhams. Even then, your intentions were good, for the most part. I might take umbrage with you for your manner, but you never intended to hurt anyone—and that makes all the difference."

"Come, let us return to the others."

She held fast to his waistcoat and tipped her face up to him. "Not just yet. I am not sufficiently comforted."

"Then allow me to correct that."

Their lips met, at first, in a chaste fashion, but their intense emotions from the day quickly turned their embrace more fervent. They were on the cusp of indulging too far when they were called back to propriety by an embarrassed giggle.

Darcy leapt away from Elizabeth and removed his wandering hands to a more innocent position by his sides. In the open doorway were Elizabeth's younger sisters, one of whom was badly concealing her mirth while the other scowled at them in disapproval.

"Mary, Kitty," said Elizabeth as she slipped off the table and straightened her skirts. The only evidence of her embarrassment was the bright red stain upon her cheeks. "Are you finished with your practise?"

Miss Catherine snorted and covered her mouth with both her hands. Her elder sister replied, primly, for the both of them. "Yes, several minutes ago. I suppose you failed to notice."

Chagrined, Elizabeth huffed a laugh. "I suppose we did."

It was awkwardly agreed by all present that a walk to Meryton would be most refreshing at that juncture and so the ladies disbanded from the stillroom to collect their things. Darcy lingered behind a few extra minutes to cool his ardour before setting off to do the same.